One last time he plunged deep, and then he quaked quite a bit himself.
She’d never known anything could be so powerful and wonderful, so exhilarating and exhausting.
“Ash?” she breathed.
He closed his lips over hers, softly, as if he were as drained as she. “Yes,” he murmured. At least, she thought it was a yes.
“Was that extraordinary?”
“Yes, Charmaine, that was definitely extraordinary.”
“No wonder,” she whispered knowingly, “it’s so difficult to convince married couples of the integrity of a pure union.”
He laughed, a low, warm rumble against her mouth. “Should be damn near impossible.”
“I never knew,” she whispered. “I never had any idea that it would be so . . . so perfectly wonderful. Magnetic forces so powerful, an energy that has to be electric, it’s so strong. . . . ”
Ash silenced her with a finger over her lips. “Don’t analyze it,” he said softly. “Not tonight.”
He looked into her eyes and brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. Would he ask her to stay? If he did, if he whispered the words right now, she would say yes without hesitation. For the moment — for the first time in weeks — her heart and her mind were perfectly clear, and she knew what she wanted.
But of course, he wouldn’t ask. He wanted a wife who could cook and sew and help out around the place. How many times had he told her she didn’t belong here, that she wasn’t the kind of woman he’d intended to marry? He wanted a helpmate, not a bedmate. A partner, not a lover. They had this, a physical attraction that was more powerful than she’d imagined was possible, but it wasn’t enough.
Ash was probably awaiting the proper time for her to leave as anxiously — more anxiously — than she was.
Sixteen
Ash woke slowly, after sleeping for several hours in Charmaine’s bed. He’d dreamed, pleasant unformed dreams that stayed faintly with him as he woke, content and well rested. Who’d have thought that the cure for his insomnia was Charmaine Haley?
She was a lovely little thing, soft and fragile — well, perhaps not as fragile as she appeared to be. Right now she was nuzzled against him for comfort and warmth, her leg thrown over his and one small hand resting on his chest, her face a match for the contentment he felt.
His happiness was disturbed by one question he couldn’t push away. Why did she make plans to leave one minute and invite him into her bed the next? It was a kind of torture, but he couldn’t believe she was purposely tormenting him. Maybe in spite of all her lecturing and protests, the physical aspects of marriage appealed to her as strongly as they appealed to him. Maybe she wanted him the same way he wanted her. With every fiber of his being.
Her body was pressed to his, skin to skin from chest to thigh. He peeled the sheet back slowly.
She was beautiful, with her creamy unblemished skin, and those curves in all the right places. And she was his, for the moment, his wife, his lover. He could look at her and be amazed . . . and then know, in a terrifying moment, that she would never stay.
Their marriage had begun with a lie. Two lies, to be honest. If he had only told her who he was, the night of the ball, nothing ever would have happened. If she had just told her father the truth, instead of fabricating a wicked romp in the gazebo, there never would have been any shotgun wedding.
And so he couldn’t be sorry.
He wanted her again. Needed to lose himself in this perfect body. Moving languidly he kissed her shoulder, the warm white skin that rested against his, and she stirred. He brushed his fingers over the swell of her breasts, finding and teasing rosy nipples tenderly until she opened her eyes and smiled at him.
The last time Charmaine had awakened in his arms she’d been angry and hurting and filled with regret. If she regretted what had happened last night, he’d know very soon. He held his breath.
“Good morning,” she whispered, and there was no regret in her voice or her eyes.
He answered her with a smile as he rolled her onto her back. Already he was hard and eager, but he waited. He kissed her, soft and then hard, and she kissed him back ardently. He took his lips from hers and touched them to the tender flesh of her breasts, tasting and exploring, and finally flicking his tongue over a hardened nipple.
She arched up and into him, spreading her legs slightly wider in unmistakable invitation, and it was all he could do not to thrust inside her. He waited, tasting one nipple and then the other, touching the damp entrance to her body, sliding one finger inside of her.
Her eyes were closed, her lips barely parted. What a magnificent sight she was. Her hands roamed over his body in an exploration of her own, soft hands that danced over his chest and his side, the curve of his hip, until she touched his manhood with gentle fingers that threatened to send him over the edge.
When he filled her she whispered his name, and it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. She wrapped around him so tight and so hot he was ready to explode, but he waited. He wanted to feel her come apart beneath him, as she had last night. He wanted her to lose control in his arms.
He wanted her to love him.
A few strokes and she was reaching for more. He buried himself deep, and it happened. She moaned as the spasms wracked her body, and then he let himself go. She drained him, body and soul, taking everything he had to offer and more. He emptied everything he was, everything he had into her welcoming body.
A moment later, Charmaine lay contented in his arms, drifting toward sleep again.
The worst had happened. He would never again be happy without her. And he knew just as well that she would never be happy here.
Of all the chores she’d taken on, this was her least favorite. She took the cow’s teat between two fingers and pulled gently. Nothing.
At least she had the relative quiet and privacy the barn afforded. That was worth something, she supposed. She pulled a little bit harder. Nothing.
She was no longer afraid that the cow would trample her. At first, as Nathan had shown her the intricacies of this chore, she’d been certain there would be some sort of revolt to follow this personal attack . . . but the good-natured cows didn’t seem to mind at all.
“You’re going to have to put a little more into it than that.”
Ash’s voice startled her, and she glanced to the side to see his big battered boots and denim encased legs nearby. “I’m just getting warmed up,” she said as she returned to the task. She took hold and squeezed and pulled, and at last milk came spurting out. It missed the pail by a good three inches, taking off at an angle, but there was milk.
“Here, I’ll do it,” Ash said, and he took a single step forward before she stopped him with a sharp reply.
“You will not.”
He didn’t take another step toward her, but leaned against a stall and watched.
If she was to convince Ash that she belonged here, she had to make herself useful. She concentrated on the chore, a simple task usually relegated to children, and gave it every bit of determination she possessed. And it worked. Milk came forth, streaming into the pail as she found her rhythm.
“I didn’t know you could milk a cow,” Ash said softly.
“I’ve only done it a few times. Nathan taught me.” She glanced up to look at Ash, and a stream of milk missed the pail and dampened the hem of her skirt. “Damnation,” she muttered as she adjusted her grip.
Ash smiled, but he had the good sense not to laugh. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“It was Elmo’s job, and from what I saw you ended up doing it most of the time, anyway,” she said sensibly. “I saw you head out here this morning, before you went to the field. I should have done it then but. . . . ”
“You were sleeping when I left the room.”
“I woke up as soon as you closed the door,” she admitted. It hadn’t been the closing of the door that awakened her, rather it was the absence of Ash in the bed.
; “I don’t mind.”
“Of course you don’t mind, but this has to be done twice a day, and I just don’t see how you have time to add this to your schedule,” she insisted. “You can’t do everything yourself, Ash, there simply are not enough hours in the day. While I’m here I might as well make myself useful.”
She glanced up and saw Ash, who hadn’t so much as moved a muscle, grinning at her, a wide wicked grin.
“You know what I mean, Ash Coleman,” she said, trying to be stern and failing miserably.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to.”
When she finished with the milking, Ash took the pail and placed it beside the open door. He turned to face her with that wicked grin in place, blocking the exit with his long legs and broad shoulders. Just looking at him made her weak in the knees.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, fairly sure she knew exactly what was on his mind.
Ash didn’t answer, but stepped forward and took her in his arms. She fit there, easily, comfortably, perfectly. One kiss, and her body responded with astonishing quickness. Her heart quickened, her arms tightened around him, her body readied itself for his.
It was just a kiss, she reminded herself. Nothing more. After all, this was late afternoon, broad daylight. It was just a kiss.
Ash lifted her from her feet and carried her away from the door.
“Where are we going?” she asked as she lifted her mouth from his.
“There’s a cot in the tack room,” he whispered. “A cot where for three days I lay in the cold thinking about you, thinking about this. . . . ”
“We can’t. . . . ” her body melted against his, in spite of her protests. “Sexual excess isn’t good for men. It causes all kinds of disease, headaches, and nervousness and . . . and weakness of the brain.”
He carried her into the tack room and slammed the door shut with his foot. “Hog-wash.”
“But . . . but there are manuals. . . . ”
He silenced her with a kiss. “I don’t believe it.”
“But . . . last night, and the night before that, and the morning in between. . . . ”
Ash set her on her feet, keeping one long arm tightly around her. His mouth danced over her throat, a hand touched her sensitive breasts, one and then the other. “Do you want me?” he whispered, his voice all but lost against her throat.
“Yes, but. . . . ”
He rose to kiss her mouth, to still whatever protests she might have, no matter how reasonable they might be.
“It’s commonly accepted that twelve times a year is all that’s healthy,” she said breathlessly.
Ash laughed huskily. “Twelve times a year?”
“That does seem . . . unnecessarily restrictive,” she conceded.
Ash lowered her to the cot and slipped his hands beneath her skirt. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks or preaches, Charmaine. Do you want me?” He touched the nub at the entrance to her body, stroked and teased.
“Yes,” she breathed, and Ash joined her on the cot, towered above her.
“I want you,” he whispered.
It wasn’t that simple, it couldn’t be.
Ash kissed her deeply, swirling his tongue seductively in her mouth.
It was that simple, for now.
* * *
Charmaine knocked on the door as if this was no longer her home, and of course it wasn’t. While she waited for someone to answer, she straightened the dark green felt hat that matched her riding outfit. She glanced over her shoulder at the boy who was leading Pumpkin to the stables, and gave him a weak smile. Why was she nervous? This was a simple visit, and her motives were sound and reasonable.
Actually, it was best not to examine those motives too closely.
Maureen Haley answered the door herself, and Charmaine was glad to see that her mother was looking well. Her color was good, her eyes bright. She’d begun to worry. Her mother was, after all, no longer a girl.
“Is everything all right?” Maureen asked as she took Charmaine’s arm and led her into the house.
“Fine, actually.” More fine than she’d ever expected, but there was no reason to elaborate. “We haven’t really visited in so long, and Verna was on one of her rampages today, so I thought it best to get away for a while.” She thought it best not to mention any of the telegrams she’d sent.
And besides, her given excuses were the truth. Verna had been in a foul mood in the days since Elmo left. That, combined with the fact that the Montgomery treasure was of no worth to her, had brought out an even more bitter side of her personality.
“I’ll have Jane make us some tea. . . . ”
Charmaine placed her hand on her mother’s arm. “Not just yet. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
The concern on her mother’s face stole some of the brightness and color. “I knew there was something wrong,” she said as she led Charmaine to the parlor and closed the double doors behind them.
Charmaine sat on the sofa, and removed the hat she’d taken the time to straighten just moments earlier. How best to proceed without giving away too much?
Maureen sat beside her and took her hands, comforting her in a motherly fashion. “What is it?”
She wouldn’t chicken out now, not because she was having second thoughts that manifested themselves as knots in her stomach. “I need your advice.”
Maureen nodded solemnly. “Of course.” She took a deep breath and very obviously steeled herself for the worst.
“I wasn’t really prepared for marriage,” Charmaine confessed. “In truth, I had decided never to marry.”
“I know,” Maureen said softly.
“My education was superb, and my studies have continued with reading and seminars . . . but there’s so much I don’t know. . . . ”
Maureen nodded her head and stroked the top of Charmaine’s hand. “I felt the same way. So many changes so very quickly. The . . . ” she took another deep breath, “intimate aspects of marriage . . . ”
“No,” Charmaine said quickly, horrified at the notion of having that conversation with her mother. “Not that.”
“Then what?”
Charmaine hesitated. This was the biggest and most momentous step she’d taken in her entire life. More important than any seminar or manual, more life-altering than any decision she’d ever made. “I want you to teach me to cook.”
“To cook?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t sit still, so she freed herself from her mother’s grip and paced in front of the sofa. “I can’t even make a decent cup of tea, much less cook an edible meal.” Her education had been excellent in most respects. Domestic arts were not taught, however, not at her exclusive school. And Felicity always had servants to take care of such matters.
“Verna is a terrible cook, and she doesn’t feed Ash nearly enough. Why, there are times I can swear I see his ribs.” She could feel the heat of a blush rising on her cheeks. Her and her big mouth. Now her mother would know she’d seen Ash naked.
“I haven’t done much cooking lately, but Jane and I together should be able to —”
“And sewing,” Charmaine interrupted before her mother could even finish her sentence. “I was taught about samplers and such, but not practical matters such as mending and darning. I tried, but I’m not very good at it.”
“That will be simple enough.”
“And laundry,” she added. “I think I ruined one of Ash’s shirts yesterday, and I can’t seem to get anything clean.”
Charmaine stopped pacing and looked down at her mother. She was presented with a warm smile.
“I say we start in the kitchen. After all, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
As her mother led her toward the back of the house, Charmaine had a flash of self-doubt. What if she couldn’t do this? What if she was a miserable failure?
Ash would never ask her to stay if he didn’t think she’d make a decent farm wife.
As
h couldn’t remember the last time he’d come home at the end of the day with a smile like this on his face. He was cold, he was tired, and every muscle in his body ached.
But Charmaine was waiting for him. A quiet, smiling face over the dinner table, a welcoming, warm body in his bed at night.
It wouldn’t last. He had accepted that fact, as well as he could. She wouldn’t be happy here for long, and she had her damned ambitions . . . but for now, while it lasted. . . .
There was a tantalizing aroma filling the house, and it almost knocked him down as he opened the door. He must really be hungry if Verna’s cooking had his mouth watering this way.
Verna was sitting before the fire, the scowl she’d worn constantly in the week since Elmo had left firmly in place. She rocked, short, angry bursts of energy. Whatever he was smelling was probably gone — or poisoned.
She snapped her head around as he closed the door. “I’ve been running this house two years,” she hissed. “I don’t need some spoiled brat coming in here to . . . to take over!”
He didn’t need to ask who the spoiled brat in question was. At that moment, Charmaine came to the open doorway between the main room and the kitchen, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. Pale hair that was usually neatly styled fell in tendrils from a bun atop her head, brushing her face and neck, and there was a smudge of something on her cheek. She smiled, and blushed, and she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever laid eyes on.
“You cooked,” he said softly.
She nodded her head. “I hope you like it.”
“I’ve gotta clean up.” He headed up the stairs for a basin of water, a towel, and a clean shirt. As he reached the top of the stairs he practically ran Nathan down.
Nathan was dressed for dinner in one of his best suits, gray with red trim. His hair was slicked back and he smelled like a barber shop. “What’s the grin for?” Nathan whispered.
He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t even tone it down. “She cooked,” he whispered, giving the words the significance they deserved. “And yesterday I caught her milking the cow.”
Cinderfella Page 17
